


I Said, "Baby, You're Not Lost"

by punto_y_coma



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 01:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20899223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punto_y_coma/pseuds/punto_y_coma
Summary: Soulmate AU: Whenever you lose an item (like a sock), it ends up in your soulmates’ possession somehow.





	I Said, "Baby, You're Not Lost"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wolvesandgirls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolvesandgirls/gifts).

She checked the pockets of her coat as she got home. It was second nature now. Whenever she found something that didn't belong, in her purse or at the café or at home, she put it in her pocket and forgot about it until the end of the day. Not that it mattered really, her bounty usually was just some loose cigarette or a half used pen, one memorable time she had found an entire Bible in her kitchen, the margins full of notes in quick handwriting... Whatever it was, Fleabag took it in her hands and studied it with the delicate nosiness of a person that goes through the toiletries of another while visiting their house. She imagined the life the Priest must be living and how these things fit into that life. After all of it was done, she placed it gently in the cardboard box she kept in her living room specifically for that purpose.

It felt corny to her, like a chore, the whole soulmate thing. Not that she had covered the box with heart stickers or anything... She had a full-bodied shiver when she remembered the His & Hers boxes her sister and Martin used to keep by the door: one of Claire's many strategies to convince herself that she was happy and fulfilled living with him. Ha! Claire's basket was always empty and Martin filled his own basket with bits and bobs he couldn't get himself to put back where they belonged, then her sister would empty the baskets every week. It was a bit sad, to be honest. Thankfully, that was over.

When it had become an issue to have the Priest's stuff gathered in a messy pile, Fleabag had gone the opposite route. She had covered an old cardboard box with guinea pig pictures to try and take the seriousness out of it. Obviously, it hadn't worked but she had tried and that was what mattered.

It would, of course, be easier if they lived together or in close proximity or even if they saw each other once every three months or something. Estranged soulmates would often include such arrangements in their divorce papers: who would pay for the constant mailing of stuff to and fro, what could happen if something got truly lost in the shuffle of it... Not to mention the new apps that provided personalized shipping, complete with sappy cards and voice messages, for long distance relationships. They decided to avoid that kind of thing as much as possible. If something important turned up she could leave it in his office or with Pam while he was at Mass and so on.

As it turned out, their lives were already fucked, way before they had sex. No one knew the science of it but most studies indicated that the bond was formed as soon as the soulmates met. Their lives had become intertwined in that fateful dinner night and, not for the first time, Fleabag wished she could go back, a set of foolproof instructions in her hand, and fix everything to get a different ending for them...

She found comfort in the fact that he was happy. Well, she had heard he was, anyway. Well, she believed he was, judging by the little things that had found their way into her hands. He was smoking less and drinking less (shop receipts), he was travelling a bit more (ticket stubs), and he was wearing the same cologne (a soft jumper she sometimes wore to bed)...

It was all a mess, wasn't it?

Three quick knocks to the door woke her up from her reverie. She opened it to find him, like she had somehow willed him into existence, the most apologetic look on his face. He was wearing sweatpants, a wrinkled t-shirt, and a sweatshirt; in short, he looked ready for bed.

"Oh," was all she managed to say.

"I know. I know," he squirmed in his place, "I'm an idiot. I'm a fucking idiot. I swear I would never come here if it wasn't important."

"No, no, it's fine, it's fine," she lied, trying her best to look composed. "What happened?"

"I lost my stole."

"Your what?" Fleabag contained a chuckle; she wasn't supposed to laugh when he was around, it made things harder for both of them.

"My fucking scarf thingy! It's very flashy, green with gold embroidery, you can't miss it."

Fleabag was now pursing her lips to stop a cackle. "'_My fucking scarf thingy_,'" she repeated. "I honestly don't know what you're talking about," she shrugged. He had that desperate look in his eyes, it wasn't good. He had to get him out of her house. "I just got home, if you wait _here_," she gestured at her living room with wide and awkward hands, "I'll look around. In the meantime," she threw the cardboard-guinea-pig-box in his direction, "that's yours."

He sat down and started going through the stuff inside the box. She went and looked around the apartment; she remembered when she used to look for Harry's plastic dinosaur toy and how different it felt now. The Priest had, for all intents and purposes, found the way to inhabit every aspect of her life, the way only a soulmate could. Between her towels, in the bathroom, there it was. The fucking scarf thingy. She grabbed it and walked back gathering enough resolve to show him out as quickly as possible. She found him, sitting on the couch, a messy pile of things on his lap.

"Is this it?"

"Yes! Thank God!" he giggled and the corners of his eyes crinkled just so... "I mean, thank you, obviously," his voice becoming more of a mutter in his embarrassment. "It's Easter Mass tomorrow," he explained needlessly. He grabbed his things and balanced them in his arms clumsily, getting ready to leave. "Thank you, for keeping these safe," he added with a smile.

"No problem," she fiddled with the doorknob for a second too long. "Can we both agree that this soulmate thing is a cruel cosmic joke? Just- God's worst idea!"

"I suppose we can," he wiggled in his spot, a soft grin making him look boyish. "Although," he arched his eyebrows, "I think it's rather comforting to have constant reminders that someone somewhere loves you, even if it's inconvenient," the Priest was grateful his hands were full, he wanted nothing more than to cup her cheek, hold her wrist, kiss her fingers, touch her skin! Not just stuff she'd lost, crumbs of her life... The knot in his chest grew tighter. "You look well, by the way," it was said low and with his eyes down, a confession. "Are you?"

" Sometimes," she admitted. "And you are...?"

"Fine, yes! Thanks," he rushed to answer. "And Hillary?"

"Perfect! Yes," she replied, her eyes resting just above his eyebrow. She could handle his eyebrow. She wouldn't be able to handle his eyes and the way that they crinkled, or his lips curling and reminding her of how good love could taste just before a wedding that wasn't hers. "Well, take care!"

"My stole?"

"Of course!"

She could have just left it on top of the pile he was carrying, neatly folded. She could have tucked it in the pocket of his sweatshirt, a bit too familiar but not terribly weird. She could have thrown it away on the street in a ball, all wrinkled, and it would have been very rude but not entirely out of character. Instead, she grabbed both ends of the scarf, took a step closer, and placed it gently around his neck (his _fucking beautiful_ neck), her fingers tangling in the fringe, and the most overwhelming silence settling between them.

"Sorry, we shouldn't," she sighed. Her will was visibly divided: she took a step back while cocking her head, tugging at the stole, gently pulling him towards her.

"We really shouldn't," he agreed; shaking his head while gazing at her mouth, his breath ragged, tickling her skin with the smell of G&T.

"I hate being the mistress," Fleabag exhaled and her fingers traced the embroidery on the scarf.

"What does that even mean?!" he chuckled incredulously. His fingers held tighter to his things, keeping that last physical barrier between them.

"It means that it's on me to forget you because I'm the homewrecker," it was said without malice but the hurt could be heard in her voice. "It means I'm fucked because God called dibs on you."

"Okay, this is ridiculous," he let everything drop to the floor and held her face with careful hands, like she was an ancient book, a forgotten work of art, invaluable. "You do know that finding your soulmate and actually liking them is very fucking rare, right?"

"Yeah."

"I question His plan, every day. I pray for you, _every day_," she let out something between a chuckle and a sob. "Maybe being in pain every fucking day is the price we pay for knowing what that feels like. To love someone so completely," it looked like he wanted to add something else; maybe some big comparison that made it sound like their love was as absolute as God's was. It was indeed as absent and one-sided at times. In the end he just added, as if to absolve himself: "We were just late. There's no one to blame."

"I'm just tired," Fleabag sighed, her fingers running over his forearm, 'Don't leave yet'. "I'm tired of trying to be the better woman. I'm tired of pretending to be righteous. Aren't you tired, Father?"

"So tired," the half-moon shadows under his eyes wouldn't let him lie. Solemnly, slowly, Fleabag inched towards his face, he closed his eyes and looked so serene. She wondered if he looked like that when he prayed. She kissed his eyes softly, his eyelashes tickling her lips.

She barely had to do any effort to reach his face; she was tall, he had forgotten that... The way everything was level between them, how neither of them was on a pedestal, how gentle it was to sin when she was involved. He took a deep breath, his gut tied in a knot, her neck smelled flowery: an afternoon spent gardening; lazy morning kisses in a B&B back in Ireland... _Home_.

"The thing is," he inhaled once more, "this," he kissed her pulse point, "is selfish." The Priest half-expected her to deny it.

"Of course it is!" her index finger traced the embroidered cross on his stole. "It's bullshit. All of it. It's bullshit," she muttered.

At that, he grabbed her wrist, his eyes dark. His hands weren't quite as careful; she smiled.

"Don't," his voice was barely a whisper.

And then he was kissing her, warm, hungry. Fleabag wouldn't be surprised if his fingers left imprints on the back of her neck, the small of her back... She felt like she was stepping inside a hot shower after a day out in the rain. She hadn't realized just how cold she was until her veins pumped blood once again under his touch.

"So, are we doing this?" she asked against his lips.

"Yeah, we are doing this," he nodded and dragged her by the hand towards the bedroom.

She had already been half-naked the last time they fucked and so the Priest seemed to be relishing the very act of helping her out of her clothes, taking his time. When she tripped with her own tangled pantyhose, he knelt swiftly to help her out and kissed his way up her legs.

Laying back in bed, anchored by the weight of him, wanting to touch every inch of him, she confirmed yet again that this wasn't about fucking God, as the therapist had suggested. It was about fucking him, with his easy smile and his lean arms and his stupidly big heart. Him, _him, **him**_. He was out of reach, a challenge, exciting, and, at the same time, the easiest, rightest thing she had ever done.

He had walked away that night, back to his peaceful existence, and she wanted to ask him how because she couldn't understand... How was peace better than this? How was silence better than him growling on her neck, panting like he was running for his life, like he was a drowning man and she was the sea? Then again, she had never known peace, not the kind he spoke of anyway. Just _this_. Burning white, hot, desperate, gasping.

Holding him to her chest, their breaths ragged, she wondered what was more painful, what he'd lost or what she was never meant to have.

"My old boyfriend used to fake it, did I tell you about that?" she said instead.

"Fake what? Coming?" he chuckled, looking up, still glowing from his own orgasm.

"No!" she tugged at his hair playfully. "She used to pretend that we were soulmates, left stuff behind when he moved out so that later he could come back for it and pretend that we were meant to be," she scrunched her nose. "Well, I say stuff but he really just left a plastic dinosaur toy."

He hummed, turning so that he could put his head on his arm and look at her better. His hand searched hers and interlocked their fingers.

"I actually think it's sweet," he admitted with sleepy eyes. "Defying destiny in his own small and misguided way. Makes me think of those paintings of knights fighting dragons, these huge fucking lizards and the little guys with their tiny swords..."

"Is that a metaphor about penis size?" Fleabag giggled giddily as he rolled over to kiss her again, tickling her ribs with the tips of his fingers, holding her down.

"I thought I was being poetic," he lamented and she stared at him fondly, running her fingers through his hair. "Have you ever kept something?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you ever kept something I lost?" he repeated, bumping their ankles.

"Are you taking confession, Father?" she teased, her index ghosting over the hair on his forearms.

"I'm serious," he said through a grin. "Look, I'll start," he raised his right arm. What she had thought was a bracelet on his wrist, now that she looked at it up close, was a group of black hair elastics. She ran her fingers over them, there were four, lined up, worn down. She didn't really wear her hair up that much, he must have collected them for months...

"I can't decide if that's very romantic or just creepy," she giggled.

"You're the creep," he bumped her thigh with his knee playfully. "Come on! What have you kept?"

"Fine! I'll show you," she resolved, disentangling herself from his embrace and reaching into a drawer for a blue jumper -his blue jumper-, putting it on and tugging at its hem until it fit her like a scandalously short dress. She smirked in his direction and climbed back into bed with him. "Now, hold me, it barely smells like you anymore."

"That's my favorite jumper and you've kept it through the winter!" he complained, putting his arms around her nevertheless.

"It's so cozy, I love it," she wiggled with satisfaction, knowing well he wouldn't ask her to give it back.

As she settled back in bed, his breath tickling her neck, there was also the ominous sense that this wonderful contentment had an expiration date; she wouldn't see him again in... Well, until one of them couldn't take it anymore and they fucked again, and then he felt guilty again...

"Hey," he kissed her forehead, sensing some sadness within her.

"Sorry," she managed a wistful smile. "Don't mind me," she scooted towards his neck, kissing his Adam's apple and staying there, in the crook of it. It would have been tender if they weren't aware that she was hiding her face from his gaze.

He tightened his hold around her, his thumbs rubbing circles on her back. "I've been sad too, feeling lonely as fuck," he chuckled lightly and she felt the vibration go through her body too. "Is it pathetic that most of my happiness is related to G&T?"

"A little bit, yeah," she mumbled against his skin. "I'm no better, though."

"But are you happy now?" he asked.

"I am," she climbed up to look at him and cup his face. "I am."

He leaned into her palm and Fleabag closed her eyes, resigned to go to sleep and have him kissing her goodbye in the morning.

She woke up in his arms, feeling the steady rhythm of his breath moving her head up and down. She remained completely still, trying to stretch the moment as long as she could. The minutes dragged and the air felt a little lighter around her.

"Pam's going to freak," he said out of nowhere.

"Hmm? I'm going to need some context, Father," she mumbled, half asleep.

"When I leave the parish," he said, like it was obvious. "Would you like to go to Ireland? Not to meet my bastard parents, just to, you know, disappear for a bit..."

"Wait! Are you talking about leaving the parish _right now_?"

"Well, no, after Easter Mass," he was wide awake and speaking calmly. "It would be fucking rude to leave without saying anything."

"How long have you been awake?" she rolled to look at him. It was a void question, to buy some time while she took everything in.

"A while," he chuckled. "What do you think?"

"Are you serious?" Fleabag could feel something resembling resentment boiling underneath the surface. She couldn't go through this, not again. Dreaming of being found, and then being left behind.

He held her face, his touch steady. "Have you ever been to an AA meeting?" Fleabag shook her head. "My parents went for a while, it didn't stick, but I would catch bits and pieces when I drove them there. Everyone felt guilty for fucking other people's lives and their own lives... They lost themselves. It was pretty fucking sad, honestly. I-" he sighed and paused, looking for the right words. "I thought that was me and you. That our lives would be fucked because of it but it's the other way around. I keep finding your shit everywhere; you're just _there_, all the time. And I fucking love you," he felt her flinch in his grasp. "I do! Of course I do! So, I guess what I'm saying is- uh-"

Fleabag kissed him with all her might and held even tighter to him. "Only say it if you mean it," she muttered. She would never beg but a 'Please don't hurt me' was just on the tip of her tongue.

He smiled, his eyes soft. "Would you come to Easter Mass with me and help me collect my shit after?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are love <3  
Come talk to me at my tumblr (@aralisj) if you want :)


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